Charles Bewitched (Leland Sisters)

by Doyle, Marissa

  “He wasn’t joking that he never rests,” he said to Margaret on the third day—at least, he thought it might be the third day, though it was hard to judge without the sun to give him cues. “How do you get away without sleeping?”

  “I don’t know. We just do. Well, I need it a bit more because I’m part human, but usually for us sleep is a—a pastime, you’d call it. Something we do for fun. He doesn’t have time for fun, though maybe he will once he and your sister are married,” Margaret said, but didn’t look convinced.

  Charles bit back the response that always flew to his tongue—that Persy already had a husband—because it did no good. He’d begun to feel a grudging respect for the fairy lord, and might indeed have come to like him if he hadn’t kidnapped his sister. But having him for a brother-in-law was out of the question; he liked Lochinvar in that role just fine, thank you.

  Margaret picked up his hand and fitted hers against it, comparing the length of their fingers. She had adopted him as her pet, it seemed, and was always near him whenever he wasn’t actively serving the fairy lord. She was fond of asking him questions and holding his hands or playing about with his hair, which was sometimes disconcerting though he found he didn’t at all mind it. In fact, it was rather plea—

  “Yours are so much bigger than mine, aren’t they?” she said, examining their joined hands, then added, almost absent-mindedly, “My mother would like you to visit her.”

  Charles had nearly forgotten about her mysterious mother in the midst of everything else he’d been doing. “Would she? That’s splendid—I’d like to talk to her too. When can we go?”

  When turned out to be not till several hours later, after a long time spent sharpening the fairy lord’s pens and blotting his letters dry as he worked at his desk. Spending so much time gazing at the strange, spiky, and incomprehensible fairy script made Charles dizzy. His senses hadn’t seemed to be working quite right since he’d come here: sight and hearing and touch and smell all seemed to be overlapping in odd ways, and his perception of distance and even balance were off. Margaret had told him it was because his world and the fairy lands were made of different materials, which sounded as plausible as anything might.

  “I think it is time we visit your world,” the fairy lord said to him as he finished the last letter. “You are not yet acclimated to this land, I see. We shall have a dance later. That will help both you and my Persephone feel better.”

  Did he miss nothing? “Thank you,” was all Charles replied, because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to conceal his glee. He’d been wondering how he would be able to sneak back to report to Lochinvar and Lorrie, and now he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d be able to run to Galiswood and talk to them, at least to assure them that Persy was here and see if they’d thought of a rescue plan yet.

  “Another short while, and you will be over your weakness,” the fairy lord continued, examining him critically. “Your sister, too, grows more used to her new home. We shall be able to hold our marriage ceremony sooner than I expected. I knew I had chosen my wife wisely. She will bear me strong children.” He gave a satisfied nod.

  Charles’s glee faded. “When will the ceremony be?”

  “Oh, soon,” he replied carelessly. “I have summoned my vassals and allies—that is what all these missives were about.” He gestured to the stack of letters that Charles was folding and sealing with blobs of silver wax. “There is a full moon coming in your world. Perhaps we shall have the ceremony then, so that I may show off my fine dancing place. Yes—we shall dance, and your sister can say farewell to your world just before she becomes lady of mine.” He smiled and flicked Charles gently on the cheek, then left.

  Charles would dearly have liked to dash the letters to the floor, but didn’t. How soon was “soon” in this land of no time? And just when would the moon be full back at home? If the fairy lord was just sending out invitations, that must surely mean there was some time to figure out how to get Persy out of here…but how long?

  Margaret’s mother had an entire wing of the fairy lord’s palace for herself and Margaret. Not too odd, Charles supposed, as she’d been the previous lord’s wife...but it felt separate, somehow, as if she wanted to live apart from her adopted people. It included a courtyard which had been cultivated to resemble, as well as it could in this strange twilit land, an English garden. Charles refrained from bending to sniff any of the flowers lest they snap at his nose—his experience with the ivy outside Persy’s window was still fresh in his mind.

  Margaret’s mother today wore no veil. Her hair was as fair as Margaret’s, and it was clear which of her parents the daughter must resemble. Just like Margaret, something about her features seemed familiar, though he was dashed if he could figure out why. She had the same dimple in her chin, but her smile was tinged with an almost unbearable sadness.

  They sat on cushioned chairs in a pool of torchlight after strolling around the garden. Margaret served them small silver goblets of one of the elusively herbal fairy wines.

  “So, Master Leland,” Margaret’s mother said, looking at him over her goblet. “Is Eton truly so bad that you preferred to come here and leave your home and family behind?”

  “Er…” Charles glanced at Margaret. All during the time he’d been helping the fairy lord with his correspondence, he’d been debating what to say to Margaret’s mother—a fellow human who’d also been abducted by fairies. If anyone here would be inclined to help him, it would be her.

  But did he dare ask her in the presence of her half-fairy daughter? What if Margaret saw it as a betrayal and stopped being his friend...was he ready to risk that? He glanced at her as he spoke. “No, not really. I’m here because I’m trying to bring my sister back home.”

  Margaret gasped. “Charles! But you said you wanted…oh, how could you? And you’re my brother’s servant now—you can’t do this to him!”

  He swallowed. “I know. I wish I hadn’t had to do it, but it was the only thing I could think of. I know he’s your brother, but Persy’s my sister. How can I turn my back on her?”

  Her lips trembled. “But I…I thought you liked it here. I thought you…liked me.”

  Charles saw her mother’s eyebrows rise. But he couldn’t pay attention to her when Margaret looked as piteous as a kitten that had been flung into a snowdrift. “I do like you, and being here. But—” He leaned forward and looked at her. “You told me that you wouldn’t allow anyone to choose your husband for you. Isn’t that what’s happened to my sister?”

  Margaret’s woeful expression changed into a thoughtful one. “Oh. I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.”

  “She already has a husband she loves, and was stolen from. Don’t you think she should go be able to go back to him?”

  “But what about you—”

  “Persephone is married?” Margaret’s mother interrupted.

  Charles turned to her. “Yes, ma’am, she’s married—well, she thought she was married to our neighbor Lochinvar Seton, the son of the Earl of Northgalis. Did you know them, too…er—” He fell silent, for she had suddenly turned white. Her goblet rang as it fell from her fingers and hit the paving stones of the courtyard. Charles stood up uncertainly and took a step toward her.

  “Mother!” Margaret jumped out of her chair too and knelt beside her, taking her hand. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  “Lochinvar, married,” she whispered. “He’s a grown man now…I keep forgetting…” She shook her head, then looked up at him with a strange expression. “And Frederick—the earl—is he….”

  Charles glanced at Margaret, but she looked as mystified as he felt. “He’s quite well, ma’am, though heart-sick over Persy—he dotes on her. His wife died years ago—did you know that?”

  “And did he—did he re-marry?” She was gripping Margaret’s hand so tightly that she whimpered in protest.

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t.” Charles thought for a moment. “My mother said once that he told her that he was trained to only one ta
ndem and couldn’t drive hitched to any other, when she tried to get him to visit London for the Season…I say!” He groped vainly for his handkerchief before remembering that he had no longer had pockets.

  Fortunately, Margaret was better prepared. “What is it, mother? What makes you cry so?” she murmured, trying to reach her mother’s face with one of the linen napkins. It was several minutes before the older woman collected herself, but when she had, Charles was astonished to see that she was smiling. She saw his expression and actually laughed through her tears.

  “My dear boy, you’ve no idea what a gift you’ve given me. I’ve spent so many years trying not to think of them, pretending they were dead…just as they think I am.” She looked at him steadily, and it was as if the pieces of a puzzle came together in his mind with a loud click.

  “You’re…you’re Lady Northgalis?” he said, his voice breaking into a squeak on the name. Good lord—Lady Northgalis, alive! What would Lochinvar say if he knew? Or poor old Lord Northgalis? “But you’re dead!”

  She shook her head, her face clouding. “No, not dead. I was taken just like your sister, except they left a changeling in my place to wither and die. It was because I…I have certain—”

  “Oh, I know,” Charles interrupted. “It’s all right—Lochinvar told us you were—are—a witch. So that’s why you were taken? Persy is too, of course. It’s a family thing.”

  Lady Northgalis sighed. “The poor child.” She held out her hand. He pulled his chair closer to hers and took it, and she grasped it tightly. “Please, Charles…tell me about them. It has been over twenty years—Lochinvar was just a small boy….” Her eyes were pleading.

  So Charles spoke, haltingly at first, answering her questions—what kind of man had her son grown to be? Had Lochinvar turned out as tall as she guessed he would? Had he gone to university? How was Lord Northgalis’s health—did he take care of himself? Had the house changed very much? When had Lochinvar and Persy married?

  At length, Margaret could no longer contain herself. “You mean I have another brother?” she demanded, sounding somewhere between interested and exasperated. “And they both want to marry your sister?”

  “Well, something like that,” Charles said. He looked at Lady Northgalis. “Who was Margaret, anyway?”

  “What do you mean? I’m Margaret!”

  Lady Northgalis smiled. “You are a very perceptive young man, Charles Leland. It was Frederick’s—Lord Northgalis’s—mother’s name. It was my small act of rebellion, if you will—a very small one was all I was capable of.”

  Charles nodded, suddenly feeling hopeful. “Are you capable of a larger one now?” he asked.

  Her smile faded. “I…I wish I were. But there is nothing I can do to help your sister. My stepson has truly entrapped her—I have made inquiries into the nature of the magic he used, and there is no breaking it. But you…” She caught and held his eyes. “You can escape here…and when you do, I want you to take Margaret with you.”

  Next to him, he heard Margaret draw in her breath sharply. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t want her to end up like your sister—like me—taken in marriage by someone not of her choosing. That was what her father intended for her—to be a pawn in his endless maneuverings with other fairy realms—and while her brother has been too busy with other affairs, it won’t be long until he remembers what use she could be to him. Take her back to our world—bring her to your mother. I know Parthenope will take care of her.”

  Charles hesitated. “I have to try to get Persy home, ma’am. But…but if you’ll promise to help me, then I’ll promise I’ll take Margaret with me if I can get back home.”

  “Oh!”

  Before Charles could do more than look up, Margaret had leapt up from her mother’s side and thrown herself into his lap, hugging him fiercely. “You’d bring me with you back to your world?” she asked breathlessly. “So that I can see an ocean, and what winter is, and squirrels?”

  “Squirrels?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I saw one once on a dancing night, but it ran away before I could get a good look at it. I’d dearly love to see a squirrel again. It looked...fluffy.” She sat with her hands on his shoulders, gazing entreatingly at him. “You’ll show me one? Promise?”

  Charles was caught somewhere between embarrassment, laughter, and something else that he wasn’t sure he could identify, but it was making his heart beat more quickly and his arms move of their own accord to encircle Margaret, to make sure she didn’t fall off or something, of course.

  “I promise I’ll show you a whole treeful of squirrels,” he said. His voice was doing something funny in his throat. He glanced at Lady Northgalis, and saw that she was smiling at them.

  With Margaret’s help, Charles managed another semi-private visit to Persy a day or so later; semi-private because he’d more or less stopped being a seven-day’s wonder at the fairy lord’s court and could come to see Persy without her ladies wanting to cluster around him, stroking his face and touching his hair.

  Though she said she was happy to see him, there was a listlessness about Persy—a hopelessness—that worried him. It lifted temporarily when he told her about his interview with Lady Northgalis; for a little while, she became her old happy, animated self, distracted by the thought of Lochinvar’s mother being alive and well, and planned to see her at the earliest opportunity. But after her initial excitement subsided, she sank into gloom once more.

  “Poor Lochinvar. He’s lost both his mother and his wife,” she said, tears starting to her eyes.

  “Not yet, he hasn’t,” Charles said stoutly. “Guess what, Perse? The fairy lord promised me another dancing night in the woods at home—he said you and I both need a few hours there to reset our equilibrium or something.”

  “I’d almost rather not go.”

  “But I need you to go.” It was hard to keep the impatience out of his voice. “You can keep him distracted while I try to get over to Galiswood and see if Lochinvar and Lorrie have come up with a plan, and tell them what I’ve learned.”

  Persy sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.” She looked up at him. “You like it here, don’t you? You like them.”

  “Stop it, you goose.” Charles poked her in the arm. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

  She smiled at him wanly and let him change the subject…but later on, he could not get her accusation out of his head. Very well, so maybe he was finding the fairy lands somewhat…interesting. The fairy lord was telling him a great deal about the fairy clans and world, and had directed Margaret to teach him the fairy tongue and writing system. She’d chosen to teach him by making him go for daily rambles in the countryside with her, often bringing a picnic with her, so that they would spend what felt like hours in the soft dusky light by brooks in which swam glowing minnows, gold and red and green, or under trees that would correct his pronunciation as Margaret taught him words and phrases. Margaret would laugh and make fun of his questions about the fairy lands, then in her turn make solemnly ridiculous pronouncements about the human world till they were both weak with laughter. How could he not be interested in this place? Honestly, it wasn’t like he wasn’t trying to get Persy out or anything like that.

  He was still justifying himself in his mind when they accompanied the fairy lord down the hillside to the door that led to the barrow on the hill near Galiswood. Persy, head held high and fingers barely touching his, walked at the fairy lord’s side. Behind them carrying her shawl of spider silk strung with crystal drops, Charles watched her with trepidation and hoped she’d remember her promise and keep him occupied so that he could slip away. Not far away, Margaret, who tonight wore a dress made of thousands of small white flowers, walked with Lady Northgalis; she too had promised to conceal his absence, but didn’t look very happy about it.

  As it turned out, rather than slipping away to Galiswood, Charles scarcely had to leave the clearing. As he and Margaret made their way with carefu
l nonchalance toward the edge of the trees, a whispered “Mister Charles!” brought them up short.

  “Stay here,” Charles muttered to Margaret, then sidled behind her and into the trees, where a grinning Nando crouched next to a thicket.

  “You came back,” he said to the boy, feeling almost ridiculously pleased. So he hadn’t run away!

  “I hide here every night, waiting to see if you come,” Nando said. “That’s what the big lord and the little lord—um, Lord Northgalis and Lord Seton—thought I should do. I watch for you at night, and I sleep in the day.” His grin widened. “And I eat a lot when I’m not watching or sleeping.”

  “I can see that.” The boy’s painfully thin frame had filled out a little, and the wary, hunted look in his dark eyes had faded. Mrs. Harris in the kitchen must be in her glory with a hungry boy to fatten up...except that must mean— “I say—how long has it been since the night I went with the fairies, anyway?”

  Nando frowned, and Charles saw his fingers moving as if counting. “Ten and two nights,” he finally said. “Eeee, they’ll be glad to see you come back! Let’s go, before the biti foki find us.”

  “No.” Charles put a restraining hand on his arm. “I can’t. I’m working for the fairy lord as a way to stay among them and figure out a way to get Persy away from them. They haven’t come up with any ideas at home, have they?” he asked hopefully.